


The Right To Remain Silent

by werewolvesandarrows (nerdy_farm_girl)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe, Bets & Wagers, Deputy Derek Hale, Drunken Shenanigans, Handcuffs, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Stiles is ridiculous, Vandalism, Werewolf Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5095553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdy_farm_girl/pseuds/werewolvesandarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he pulls into the station all the on-duty deputies seem to be gathered around the glass doors, watching as Derek pulls the kid out of the back seat of his cruiser. The kid winks at the group of them and they start cheering loudly, or well, Tara and Parrish start cheering. The rest mutter swears under their breath. Derek’s not exactly sure what’s going on, but he guides Scott and his friend inside anyway, glaring at his co-workers that have suspiciously returned to their desks, faces pictures of faux innocence. The kid seems to know everyone in the station personally, greeting them all by name or with weird facial expressions as Derek marches him towards the Sheriff’s office. Derek’s not all that surprised; the kid is obviously a little shit, it would make sense that he would be well acquainted with the law officers in town.<br/>It’s not until they take their first step into Sheriff Stilinski’s office that he realizes just how wrong he is.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Alternately Titled: Three Times Derek Cuffs Stiles + One Time Stiles Cuffs Him</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right To Remain Silent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asocialfauxpas (fuzzytomato)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzytomato/gifts).



> \- Marked as underage because Stiles is 16 when he and Derek first meet. Derek does not think about him in a sexual manner until Stiles is 18, and nothing physical happens between them until Stiles is 21  
> \- I had a ton of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy it!  
> \- Many thanks to Kat, Petals, Silv and Lena for all the cheer leading, I could never have made it through without you!  
> \- A huge thank you and my eternal devotion to Alex, Sarah and Iris for being great betas and helping this thing make sense

**1\. Misidentification**

Derek’s just trying to do his job is all, really. He’s the rookie on the force, having only returned to Beacon Hills a few months ago, after spending a couple years in New York. And okay, _maybe_ he’d only come back because his mother had begged him, and then made him feel guilty for leaving his family (even if it had been for their own good). Plus, he had gone to NY for school only to drop out a few months in, before going on to join the police force.

He’d been a beat cop in New York, but coming back to Beacon Hills with a year and a half of experience with the NYPD definitely made him a prime candidate for the open deputy position with the Sheriff’s Department. Even with _real_ experience he is still considered the rookie, a little green behind the ears, especially since most of the deputies have been working in the department since he was a kid. In an attempt to prove himself, he takes his patrol car down the dirt road that winds through the preserve, cutting through his parents’ property and along the edge of the state owned land.

The road is lit only by the moonlight that filters through the trees overhead; the grass on the sides worn down in places where cars had pulled off to park. He’s heading towards Make Out Point (officially known as Lookout Point), where he _knows_ he’s guaranteed to find some kids parked and can at least entertain himself with some window knocking and mortification. His headlights catch on something, bright reflection bouncing back at him, and he squints, frowning at the faded blue Jeep pulled into an old logging road that cuts through Hale Territory.

Whoever it belongs to appears to have attempted to hide it from view, branches and leaves thrown haphazardly across the hood, and what looks to be camo cloth from a deer blind tossed over the roof. It’s pathetic is what it is, even someone without enhanced eye sight would have been able to spot the Jeep.

Derek flicks on his lights and pulls in behind it, listening as two heartbeats turn from almost sluggish to frantic in response.

“Dude it’s fine,” one voice says, young, male, _annoying_ , as Derek climb out of the car. He wishes he could turn the lights off, the flashing red and blue hurts his eyes, but there’s protocol and everything. Speaking of… he reaches back into the car with a sigh, pulling out the radio.

“This is Hale,” he growls into the microphone. “Got a 22500 out on Raccoon Hill, looks like a couple of kids. I’m gonna check ‘em out.”

The radio buzzes for a second.

“This is dispatch, copy.” Silence falls when the radio cuts out, the heartbeats in the jeep pounding in Derek’s ears. He can smell the marijuana now as the driver rolls down the window, and attempts to air out the vehicle.

“Stiles this is _so_ bad,” another voice hisses, and Derek has to hold in a groan. He _knows_ that voice, unfortunately. While he was in New York a rogue alpha tore through Beacon Hills, leaving six newly bitten teenagers in his wake. He’s not exactly thrilled about his mother welcoming them into the pack with open arms, but he can recognize a pack member’s voice whether he’s happy about having them in his life or not. With a sigh he walks up to the driver’s window, knocking on it with his flashlight until it rolls all the way down.

“What are you-” Derek starts, pausing when the driver cuts him off, quite _rudely_ to be honest.

“Can I see some identification please?” Everything about the kid rubs Derek the wrong way, from the smug tone of his voice to the smart ass way his lips lift up to one side. He shines his light in the driver’s eyes as he reaches for his badge. “Seriously dude?” The driver continues when Derek waves it in his face. “How am I supposed to see that with you blinding me?”

“Stiles,” the passenger whines. Derek knows it’s Scott McCall, one of his mother’s new betas. He slouches in his seat, the scent of his embarrassment almost overpowering the weed.

“This is private property,” Derek starts, watching as clever brown eyes snap up to his face. The driver is young, probably just barely sixteen, with pale skin dotted with moles and a ski jump nose. He’s kind of awkward looking, all jammed in the Jeep like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his body yet. Derek knows he’ll be trouble soon, remembers what is was like to be sixteen and awkward, then suddenly turn seventeen and have shoulders and muscles and hair on his chest. “Can I see _your_ identification? Yours too, Scott.” 

"You know this guy?" the driver hisses, the betrayal written clearly on his young face. Scott just rolls his eyes and nods, hair flopping over his forehead as he leans across the Jeep to hand Derek his license. His eyes flash gold when their fingers brush, and Derek can feel his own glow in response. The other kid sucks in a breath, but when Derek looks back at him, he's making absolutely no move to pull out any form of identification.

"Kid, I need to see your license." Derek grumbles, barely glancing at Scott's before handing it back.

"I'm not doing anything wrong," the kid almost drawls, leaning back in the seat with a smug grin as if Derek can't hear his heart skipping over the lie.

"You're a minor in possession of marijuana."

The kid’s grin only widens, eyes sparkling with mischief. Derek hates him on principle.

"Can't prove I'm underage without an ID," he says, triumphant. In the passenger seat, Scott covers his face with his hands and groans.

"Without an ID I have to assume you're operating this vehicle without a license, and I'm going to have to bring you down to the station."

If anything the kid’s grin grows wider, like he's pleased with this development.

"Why don't you go ahead and try?"

 

Twenty minutes later Derek has both Scott and his friend in the backseat of his cruiser, heading back into town.

"Dispatch, this is Hale, bringing in two, uh... kids. Over."

"This is dispatch. What are you booking them for? Over." He can recognize Deputy Tara Grimes’ voice, slightly sleepy in that way she gets, sitting behind the desk.

"One refused to provide identification, and appears to be the operator of the vehicle parked on Raccoon Hill about two miles in. The other has been identified." Derek pauses to glare at Scott in the rear view. "He's apparently along for the ride.... Over."

"The Sheriff wants to know the name," Tara replies back, her voice sounding... off somehow. Derek sighs again.

"Scott McCall, aged 16. Over." There seems to be a commotion on the other end before it cuts out, only for Tara to come back on, breathless.

"Sheriff wants you to bring 'em into his office," she _laughs._ "Over."

Derek frowns at the radio, hard. This whole night is taking some strange turns.

"10-4," he grumbles into the radio, glaring at the rear view when he hears a giggle from the back seat. Scott’s friend is _still_ smirking, even with his hands cuffed behind his back and his body contorted in a way that looks supremely uncomfortable. After refusing to give any identification to Derek, he’d proceeded to refuse to exit the vehicle. Derek hadn’t been planning to cuff him, but by the time he was tightening the cuffs on the kid’s skinny wrists, he was feeling more than a little satisfied.

“Don’t look so smug, kid,” he snaps, jaw clenching when the kid starts to grin. “The Sheriff isn’t going to go easy on you, you know.”

Scott lets out a low moan as his friend snorts obnoxiously, and Derek can’t help but feel like he’s missing something important.

When he pulls into the station all the on-duty deputies seem to be gathered around the glass doors, watching as Derek pulls the kid out of the back seat of his cruiser. The kid winks at the group of them and they start cheering loudly, or well, Tara and Parrish start cheering. The rest mutter swears under their breath. Derek’s not exactly sure what’s going on, but he guides Scott and his friend inside anyway, glaring at his co-workers that have suspiciously returned to their desks, faces pictures of faux innocence. The kid seems to know everyone in the station personally, greeting them all by name or with weird facial expressions as Derek marches him towards the Sheriff’s office. Derek’s not all that surprised; the kid is obviously a little shit, it would make sense that he would be well acquainted with the law officers in town.

It’s not until they take their first step into Sheriff Stilinski’s office that he realizes just how wrong he is. He’s not sure how he never noticed it before, or how he didn’t put two and two together, but there, hanging on the wall behind the Sheriff’s desk, is a framed school photograph of the very boy he has in cuffs. Same honey gold eyes, same scattering of moles, same infuriating little smirk. Derek remembers the Sheriff’s kid from when he was still a kid himself, the same age as Cora, short and hyper and smelling distinctly of grief. He’d never thought that that little boy would grow up tall and irritatingly charming.

“I’m so sorry sir, I-”

“Save it Hale,” the Sheriff looks up from the pile of papers on his desk, and shakes his head.

Derek snaps his mouth shut and glares at Scott, who has slumped down into one of the pleather chairs in front of Stilinski’s desk as if he’s done this a thousand times.

“Stiles,” Stilinski continues, turning his a calculating gaze onto his son. (And really? _Stiles_ Stilinski?) “Want to explain to me why you wouldn’t give Deputy Hale your license?” Stiles opens his mouth to answer, but Stilinski holds up a hand. “ _And_ tell me why you _reek_ of marijuana?”

Derek chances a glance at Scott, who has managed to curl up in a ball with his head resting on his knees. Pathetic.

“Hey Daddy-o!” Stiles chirps, grin starting to look a little forced. “I, uh, you know, you might want to get your nose checked, because I have no idea what smell you’re talking about, or uh, what mary-ju-wanna even smells like.” He winks at Derek, obviously pleased with his _horrible_ lie. Judging by the 1000% done look on Stilinski’s face, he’s not buying it either, but Stiles plows onward. “And, uh, Tara said she’d give me ten dollars if I managed to get Deputy Hale to bring me into the station so…” This time Scott and Stilinski sigh in unison.

What Derek is not at all expecting is Stilinski to peer through his fingers and say,

“You couldn’t have waited three more days, kid?”

It’s the first time Derek considers quitting, but it’s definitely not his last. 

* * *

 

 

 **2\. Of Toilet Paper and Egg Yolks**  

Derek wishes he could say that was the last time he saw Stiles Stilinski, but unfortunately life had other plans for him.

After his initial arrest Stiles begins making regular appearances in the station, bringing his dad lunch and gossiping with Parrish and following Tara around being generally annoying. He wears at Derek too, bringing him donuts (with a side of ridiculous cop jokes) and accompanying Scott to the Hale house whenever his mother decides her little group of bitten betas need pack bonding time. Much to Derek’s horror, his entire family seems to take to Stiles instantly, and before long he’s considered pack right alongside the six bitten teenagers that he attends school with.

Over the years since they’d been bitten, Derek had gradually warmed up to the teens. Boyd is definitely his favorite, quiet and loyal with a sense of humor that kind of sneaks up on a guy. Lydia is alright too, even if she isn’t an actual werewolf and the sound of her Banshee Screams chill him straight to the bone. At least she hasn’t made it her life’s mission to annoy him like the others. Scott can be okay sometimes. Derek thinks they might even be friends one day, once the stars align and Stiles stops getting in the way (he totally sabotages any and all of Derek’s attempts to try and be nice to Scott).

Erica and Isaac live to make his life miserable, playing pranks on him and imitating his huffy eye roll perfectly (his mom insists that they just want his approval, but he’s 87% sure that is totally false). If he and Jackson were the same age, they’d probably get along great, but as it is the kid’s a little bit too much of an asshole for Derek to stomach. All this really means is that sometimes Derek convinces Lydia and Boyd to have regular skype sessions with him now that they’re off in college. It’s nice, because they can actually talk about academic things without being derailed by the general obnoxiousness that comes with the rest of the pack. _And_ it also meets Talia’s requirement that he stay in touch with “their pack” while they’re all off in college. (Derek _may_ have cried tears of joy the first time he managed to go a whole day without a rude text from Erica, Scott giving him a dirty look, or passing Jackson in his ridiculous car).

He’s a little disappointed in himself when he gets sent out on a vandalism call a couple of weeks before Halloween, and he doesn’t even consider the idea that his pack might be involved.

It’s Columbus Day weekend, and he should’ve known those idiots would be home causing trouble, but he still finds himself surprised to pull up in front of a house belonging to one Adrian Harris and find Stiles Stilinski grinning at him proudly from his hiding spot in a tree.

“I was hoping it’d be you Der-Bear,” he calls as Derek climbs out of his car, dropping out of the tree and landing easily on his feet. Stiles looks… _good,_ as much as Derek hates to admit it to himself. He’s grown into his long legs and arms, shoulders broad and straining against the fabric of his black t-shirt. His hair is longer than it was when they first met, tousled like he just woke up (or just had sex). To put it lightly he’s sex on legs, and it’s not that Derek hadn’t noticed before, but it seems two months away at Berkeley has only made is more apparent.

“Why are you still here, dumbass?” he growls, leveling Stiles with what he hopes is an intimidating glare. Stiles just grins and punches him lightly in the arm, the half-moon reflecting back at Derek in his eyes. “I can tell that the other idiots were here, too.”

“Ooooo what’re you gonna put in your report, then? ‘I could _smell_ three other suspects’? I’m sure that will go over real well.” Derek scowls at the ground. Unfortunately, Stiles is right; there’s no way he could prove that anybody else was here.

“Fine. You better start cleaning this up then.” He points towards the house, covered in splattered eggs and toilet paper.

“Oh no way, man,” Stiles whines, turning his back to Derek. “Just cuff me and stuff me. I ain’t cleaning Mr. Harris’s house.”

He waves his wrists at Derek, his fingers ridiculously long and _obscene_. Derek briefly considers what those hands would feel like pressed against his chest, sliding against his abs, curled around his dick. He stops that train of thought immediately, hoping Stiles can’t see the way his cheeks burn in the darkness.

“Your dad’s going to make you do it anyway,” he counters, even though his fingers are already reaching for his cuffs. Stiles grins over his shoulder like he _knows_ Derek will do whatever he wants, tongue flicking out against his bottom lip briefly.

“At least let me try to reason with him, dude,” he says, gaze lingering a little too long, leaving Derek to deal with the flash of dizzying heat that envelops his body. Stiles smells impossibly good right now, like apple pie and sugar and _oh no_. This is _not_ happening. He is _not_ attracted to Stiles Stilinski. He might slap the cuffs on a little rougher than he should, but Stiles is still smirking like he knows what Derek’s thinking, and his heart rate definitely jumps when Derek wraps a hand around his bicep and pulls him towards the car. Derek _definitely_ doesn’t know how he’s supposed to deal with this development.

Stiles is only eighteen, and it might be _legal_ but it certainly doesn’t sit right with Derek. Stiles is his boss’s _son_ , and Scott’s best friend, _and_ a general pain in the ass. Getting involved with Stiles would definitely not improve his quality of life. (Except for those lips and that tongue and those big hands. No. He's not even considering this right now). He's almost certain that Stiles shakes his ass at him when he pushes him into the backseat, and he _hates_ that his first thought is that he should smack it.

The air in the car is thick with arousal, both his and Stiles', and Derek feels too big for his skin. He can feel Stiles' eyes on the back of his head and hear the pound of his heart and the rush of blood in his veins, can smell the drying egg yolks on his fingers and the Axe body wash he uses and the cloying cinnamon sugar scent of want. After this he's going to have to shift and run in the woods until he's short of breath, going to have to sweat this little _problem_ out.

"What's the matter, Hale?" Derek glances in the rear view and narrows his eyes, hating the way the impish curl to Stiles' lips makes his stomach twist. "You're looking a little... _flushed._ "

"You know I can smell that, right?"

Stiles looks unabashed by his condescending tone, eyes lighting up with glee. Derek knows that something _horrible_ is coming, and his stomach hardens with dread. Not for the first time, he wishes he could duct tape Stiles' mouth shut.

"You could let me blow you," Stiles offers, shrugging one shoulder as best he can handcuffed. "Sources say I've got the best mouth in town. It would clear up some of this sexual tension between us..."

Derek wants to say yes, wants to get his hands and his mouth on Stiles and show him how good a blow job can be. Instead he schools his face into an unimpressed expression and raises one brow.

"You really want me to add propositioning an officer to your rap sheet?"

"I'm pretty sure it's already on there." comes the mumbled reply, but when Derek glances in the mirror Stiles doesn't meet his eyes. His disappointment is tangy and sharp, like ammonia. It makes Derek's chest hurt and he wishes for it to stop, wants the cinnamon and sugar to come back. Instead he just rolls his eyes, and pretends like his inner wolf isn't howling.

(The sheriff doesn't comment on Stiles' down turned mouth or Derek's flushed cheeks, just sighs and shakes his head and mutters what sounds suspiciously like ' _morons'_ under his breath)

* * *

 

 

**3\. Public Intoxication (and General Indecency)**

Derek's phone is blowing up, and he wants to smash it with his boot. He took second shift tonight on purpose, because he'd rather be sitting at his desk twiddling his thumbs than celebrating with a bunch of idiots. But _apparently_ his so-called friends seem to think it's necessary to keep him updated.

There's a group message between himself, Lydia, and Scott with ten unread messages, and it looks like Erica's been sending him pictures. Boyd, it seems, is his only _actual_ friend, and hasn't texted him at all. He should buy him a present or something. With a sigh he opens up the group chat.

**SCOTT: duddeeeee you are missing out**

**LYDIA: why are you in this group message scott?**

**LYDIA: but it is true**

**SCOTT: he's had six beers and six shots so far**

**LYDIA: three of those shots were body shots. Off of a stripper**

**SCOTT: he keeps asking the cop strippers if they know you**

**LYDIA: don't tell him that scott jfc**

**SCOTT: what it's not like I told him that stiles wants to have his babies**

**LYDIA: oh my god**

**SCOTT: whoops my bad bro. Pretend you never saw that**

 

Derek sighs, and resists the urge to bang his head on his desk. Ever the glutton for punishment, he grits his teeth and opens the pictures from Erica. The first is rather blurry, and after squinting at it for a few seconds he recognizes Stiles, identifiable only by the tiara perched on his head with 21 blinking in pink lights. The rest of him is blocked by a young woman, dressed in what appears to be a camouflage bikini, head thrown back as she gives him a lap dance. Something cold and slimy settles in his chest but he ignores it, flicking to the next pic.

This one is very clearly Stiles, blurred around the edges, eyes droopy and glazed and his t-shirt unsurprisingly covered in spilled alcohol. He's got one hand wrapped around a stripper’s pole, the other occupied by a dangerously full glass of sickeningly green concoction. There are guys surrounding him, hot ones at that, all shirtless and glistening muscles. Derek likes to think his body is _better_ , but he's not exactly sure what that would prove. He _knows_ they're at a strip club, _knows_ half the reason they're there is because he made the mistake of saying ‘ _don't do anything stupid like go to a strip club’_ so of course that's what they're doing. He shouldn’t even _care_ about what Stiles is doing, who Stiles is touching, who Stiles thinks is hot. It shouldn’t _matter_ , they’re all friends now, and Derek should be happy that Stiles is happy.

He’s not.

He’s really, really not.

His phone beeps with an incoming text from Boyd, and he kind of wants to cry. If he gets one more picture of Stiles dancing with some other guy he’s going to just toss his phone in the trash and get a new number. Possibly shift into wolf form and hide in his Mom’s house for a week. Of course, he opens the text anyways.

 

**BOYD: just a heads up, drunken idiot heading your way**

 

Has he mentioned that Boyd is his favorite? He’s totally getting him that set of skates he’s been eyeing for the last year and a half.

Not long after, headlights flash through the glass doors of the station as an unfortunately familiar BMW pulls into the parking lot. He’d been hoping that Stiles would get sidetracked and maybe direct whoever was driving him to, like, the diner for curly fries instead, but it appears he was really set on this destination. _Why_ , Derek doesn’t know. He’s pretty sure _if_ he could get drunk he wouldn’t want to head to his father’s place of employment but Stiles is a… special case.

Deciding he’d rather have this confrontation (because that’s what it’s going to be; he’s been around drunk Stiles before) take place _outside_ of the station, he pushes himself to his feet and makes his way towards the doors. He watches as Scott hops out from behind the wheel and hurries around to the other side, helping a surprisingly disheveled looking Lydia out of the front seat (which explains why he is driving her car).

Lydia eyes him with apparent annoyance as he walks across the lot towards them, her hands on her hips and one stiletto clad foot tapping impatiently.

“I wanted some chicken nuggets, Derek.” Upon closer inspection, her usually immaculate eyeliner appears to be smudged and her eyes can’t seem to focus on anything in particular. If Derek wasn’t so afraid of her he’d probably take a picture. “But _apparently_ the _birthday boy_ would rather come visit you than go get fucking curly fries.”

Derek wants to ask her how any of that is _his_ fault, but just as he’s about to open his mouth and do exactly that, the back door of her car is thrown open dramatically. He struggles to hide his amusement as Stiles attempts to exit the backseat. First he gets hung up on the seat belt, then his knees buckle, though he manages to save himself by clinging to the inside of the door. Scott seems to be itching to help his friend, but Lydia has the dangerous looking heel of her stiletto resting on the toe of his sneaker. God, she’s so scary sometimes. Stiles ends up draped over the open door, tiara still blinking and slipping to one side, held in place by a clump of hair that seems to be matted with gel. He’s grinning sloppily, the flush on his cheeks spreading down his neck and appearing in blotches across his collarbones. Derek wants to taste it, wants to feel the blood rushing beneath his tongue, wants Stiles to smell like sweat and booze and _him_ more than anything else.

He settles for raising his eyebrows, and crossing his arms.

“Heyyyyyyy, Deputy Bubble Butt,” Stiles grins, flapping one hand in what Derek assumes is supposed to be a wave. Beside him, Scott lets out a long suffering sigh. “You should, you should…” Stiles pauses, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “You should gimme a private show.” His delighted expression only seems to brighten when Derek frowns, and it _really_ shouldn’t make Derek feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

“We’re not at the club any more Stiles,” Scott says gently, eyes cutting warily to Lydia as he shifts towards his friend. “This is Derek.”

“I _know_ it is!” Stiles huffs, waving Scott off with one very floppy hand. “I’ve been _waitin’_ for my birfday kissssss.” He continues to drag the ‘s’ out until he’s gasping for breath. “Don’t I da-, it’s what I wished for Scotty!”

“Just because you wish for something doesn’t mean you get it Stiles,” Scott slides his foot out from under Lydia’s heel and inches towards Stiles, like he’s a caged animal. “Derek gets to choose who he kisses, okay?” Stiles face instantly falls, eyes drooping and lips curving into an exaggerated frown. It’s absolutely pathetic but Derek feels it like a knife to the chest anyways.

“It’s fine Scott,” he mutters, ignoring the way Lydia smirks at him like she _knows_. She _can’t_ know. She’s drunk. “It’s not like he’ll remember anyways.” Lydia lets out a very inelegant snort as he steps towards Stiles. Scott’s looking at his face like he’s concerned for his wellbeing, and really, since when has Scott McCall been perceptive? Derek crooks a half smile and pushes past him, stepping around the open door and pressing a soft kiss to Stiles’ cheek.

He should have known better.

At first, Derek thinks everything is going to be fine. Stiles’ face slowly brightens, eyes sparkling and grin returning in epic proportions. That alone turns Derek’s chest into a space heater and sends the butterflies in his stomach wild. Of course, it doesn’t stop there. Stiles tilts his head back a _howls_ at the moon, loud and clear and above all ridiculous. Even more mortifying is the fact that Derek can pick out Erica, Cora, and Boyd’s answering howls from across town, his and Scott’s eyes flashing in response.

“Thanks Der Bear!” Stiles chirps, and then he’s ducking around him with surprising agility and flat out running across the parking lot. He manages to stumble only once, scrambling up onto the hood of one of the parked cruisers. He wobbles there for a minute before turning and stepping up onto the roof, seemingly oblivious to the way the whole thing caves under his weight.

“DEREK HALE KISSED ME!!!” His yell echoes through the empty lot, finding a home in the flush crawling down Derek’s neck. “THE HOTTEST COP EVER FUCKIN’ KISSED ME!!!!” Stiles pauses for a moment, eyes lighting up with what can only be a horrible idea.

“Come on Stiles, get down!” Scott hisses, jogging up to the car and reaching for his ankle. Stiles side steps away and brings a hand up to his face like he’s holding a microphone.

“Cause I’m in love with a stripper,” he sings, hips rolling to a beat only he can hear. “He poppin’ he rollin’ he rollin’, he’s climbin’ that pole and I’m in love with a stripper.” He points and winks at Derek, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt and pulling it over his head. He keeps singing even though it gets caught on his chin and his elbows, hips still rolling to the beat in his head. Except now Derek can see the flex of his abdomen as he shifts, can watch the sinuous stretch of skin and muscle over his hip bones.

“Derek can you pause your internal crisis, and help me get him down!” Scott hisses, holding his hands up like Derek has someone personally offended him. It’s so _rude_ , but Derek is an officer of the law _and_ in possession of a pair of handcuffs, so really, it’s his duty.

 

It doesn’t go well, not that anything involving Stiles ever really does.

Scott ends up having to climb up on the car with him and wrestle him into submission before passing him off to Derek. Once Stiles’ feet are on solid ground again he picks up where he left off, singing and working at the button on his jeans and dancing all up on Derek. It doesn’t really stop when Derek manages to finally pull his arms behind his back and cuff his wrists, his hips still thrusting forward in an attempt to grind against Derek’s thigh. Derek knows his face is cherry red as he pushes him into the station, still loudly singing about strippers and falling in love with them. The only bright side to this whole thing is that Lydia managed to record almost all of it, and Derek gets to watch Stiles’ face flush brighter and brighter when the entire group gets together and watches it. He lives for silver linings.

* * *

 

 

 **+1 The Right To Remain Silent**  

Derek blinks slowly, rolling to one side so he can squint at his alarm clock. It reads 8:35am, and he sighs softly, curling back up under his comforter. Today’s the first day he’s had off in weeks, and he plans on spending half of it in bed. The October sun is shining softly through his windows and the temperature beneath the covers is the perfect percentage warmer than the air in his bedroom and he _deserves_ a lazy Saturday morning, okay? He’s just about drifted back to sleep when he hears it.

The footsteps are soft, purposefully quiet like someone is trying to sneak through his apartment. He would freak out, but he can hear the person’s heart beating loud and clear, and as embarrassing as it is, he recognizes them immediately. While he still heavily regrets ever giving any members of his pack (other than his mom, of course) keys to his apartment, he’s not all that concerned. It’s just Stiles, after all.

He pretends to be asleep as his bedroom door creaks open, burying his face in his pillow to hide the stupid little smile that’s curling at the corners of his lips. It’s embarrassing really, how head over heels he is for this idiot who seems to remain blissfully ignorant of Derek’s feelings for him. But Derek’s getting tired of Scott’s pitying looks, and Lydia and Erica’s blatantly obvious attempts to get them together. He’s going to have to do something about it eventually, but for now he’s content to just pine in peace.

Peace being a relative term.

Whatever peace he is currently experiencing is shattered when Stiles lets out a battle cry and leaps on top of him, using his element of surprise to wrestle Derek’s arms over his head.

“Stiles what the fuck?” he grumbles, sighing when he tries to moves his arms and finds his wrists handcuffed to his wrought iron headboard. The fact that this observation isn’t doing _anything_ to calm down his morning wood should probably be concerning. But at least Stiles doesn’t seem to have noticed yet.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Stiles recites in a faux gruff voice. “Anything you say can and will be held against you-”

“Stiles.” His eyes light up at the sound of his name, as if Derek has made all of his wildest dreams come true. He grins and scrambles to lay across Derek’s chest, his chin digging into Derek’s sternum.

“Good choice buddy,” he grins, eyes dancing as he waits for Derek to catch up. “I’d chose you to be held against me too.” Derek sighs and squints down at Stiles smiling face.

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m definitely going to hold that comment against you, dude. And it’s a flat out lie. I am _hilarious_.” He wishes he didn’t agree, wishes Stiles wasn’t so far under his skin, wishes his hands weren’t cuffed to the fucking bed so he could pull Stiles up and kiss him.

“It’s my day off, Stiles. Why are you here?” He grumbles instead, picking up on the lingering scent of pumpkin spice coffee on Stiles’ breath. “Where’s _my_ coffee?”

“You only get it if you agree to come with me.” Stiles sits up with a huff, eyes narrowing in on Derek’s face. He misses the heat of Stiles’ body immediately, wants him pressed back up against him, under the covers preferably.

“You thought the best way to get me to agree with you on _anything_ was to cuff me to my own bed?” Stiles’ smile tilts like he’s about to make a joke but then thinks better of it, a delicate blush appearing high on his cheeks. Derek takes in his outfit, old jeans and faded boots and a ridiculous orange plaid flannel shirt. He looks like some Instagram boyfriend ready to go pick pumpkins or something. Derek narrows his eyes. This better not be going where he thinks it's going. “What exactly are you trying to get me to do?”

If Stiles picks up on his suspicious tone he doesn’t show it, his lips pushing out into the most infuriatingly pretty pout Derek has ever seen.

“Everybody’s out doing coupley things,” he whines, flopping back down across Derek’s chest. “I don’t wanna go to the pumpkin patch and have my students actually witness me functioning as like the seventh wheel! They’re thirteen! I’ll never live it down!” Just the image of Stiles being teased by a classroom of eighth graders has him fighting back a smirk.

“So you decided to break into my home and disrupt my day off?”

“You’re the only non-coupley person I know!” Stiles continues, apparently choosing to ignore Derek’s commentary. “If you come pick pumpkins with me you can scare kids away with your teeth and we can make fun of Scott and Isaac behind their backs.”

“I still don’t understand why you had to handcuff me.” Stiles blinks at him for a minute, as if seeing him for the first time.

“Huh,” he sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Sorry dude. I wasn’t really thinking.” Derek’s retort of _are you ever_ dies on his lips when Stiles leans over him, fingers trailing up his arm as he reaches to unlock the cuffs. Something must give him away. Whether he makes a noise or shifts his hips or maybe just lets out a shuddering breath, Derek doesn’t know, but Stiles pauses, one hand curled around Derek’s forearm. “Derek.” He says, voice wavering in a way Derek’s never heard before. “Are you… really?” Derek’s first reaction is to deny it and growl and maybe flash his eyes a bit. He could break out of the cuffs if he really wanted to. But it’s impossible for him to ignore the way Stiles’ scent goes hopeful, how both of their heartbeats seem to be pounding in his ears, how _good_ it feels to have Stiles touching him. So he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and leaps.

“Maybe we could uh, be coupley people… together?”

In the silence that follows all he can hear is the pounding of Stiles’ heart, like the beat of a drum getting faster and faster until there are hands cupping his cheeks and warm breath washing across his lips.

“Can I kiss you now, or?” He’s sure Stiles intended it to be a smart ass remark, but the tone is all wrong, too soft and throaty to be anything except breathlessly excited. Derek opens his eyes to find Stiles staring down at him, clear brown eyes only inches from his own, filled with hope and vulnerability and poorly concealed adoration. Instead of answering he pushes forward, pressing his lips against Stiles’.

It takes a second to get it right, for Stiles to tilt his chin down and Derek to part his lips just a bit and then suddenly they’re really kissing, tongues and teeth and heat. Derek snaps the cuffs without even thinking about it, curling one hand around Stiles’ hip, resting the other at the base of his neck. But Stiles pulls back too soon, dragging Derek’s bottom lip between his teeth in a way that makes Derek’s toes curl.

“You _like_ me.” Stiles grins, propping himself up on Derek’s chest with one elbow as he kicks off his boots. They fall to the floor with loud thumps. “Derek Hale likes _me._ ”

“Don’t.”

“The hottest cop _ever_ fucking likes _me_!” Stiles laughs then, leaning back down and pressing his smile against Derek’s lips. He lets out a little squeak when Derek flips them over, pinning Stiles’ hands above his head and nuzzling against his neck. He still smells so good, like cinnamon and sugar and the kitchen during the holidays. Derek wants to eat him up, want to consume him, wants to drown himself in everything that is _Stiles_.

“I’ve been in love with you since I was seventeen, you know,” Stiles whispers, his fingers combing slowly through Derek’s hair. “I never thought…”

Derek doesn’t let him finish that thought, presses soft kisses up his throat and across his jaw until he finds his lips again. This time he leads the kiss, moaning when Stiles lets him, lets him taste and bite and savor. He pushes his hands up under Stiles’ excessively layered shirts, needing to feel the heat of his skin against his fingers. Stiles only lasts a few seconds before he pulls back and yanks all of his shirts over his head at once, narrowly missing knocking Derek in the head with his wayward elbows. It’s even better then, the feel of their bare chests pressed together, warm skin on skin.

“I was planning on spending the day in bed,” Derek offers as he pulls the comforter over them, stomaching flipping at the sight of the pleased little smile on Stiles’ face. “I think that qualifies as a couple’s activity.” He kisses him again, gently, still marveling at the fact that he gets to do this at all.

They settle on their sides, trading soft kisses and gentle touches, their feet and legs tangled up beneath the blankets. Stiles’ hands feel even better on him than he imagined, strong and sure, but somehow still delicate. He needs his touch, everywhere and in every way, but for now he’s happy with this cautious exploration.

“I love you,” he murmurs, lips dragging against the delicate skin of Stiles’ throat. Stiles’ fingers tighten where they’re twisted in his hair and curled around one arm, but he can hear the smile in his voice when he takes a deep breath and says,

“I know.”

Derek can’t help but sigh.

He’s in love with an asshole.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :)


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